


The Priest's Secrets

by janto321 (FaceofMer)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Priests, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Developing Relationship, Historical, M/M, Priests, Protective Mycroft, Sherlock Being a Good Brother, Vampire Sherlock, Vampire Turning, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:08:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21821950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321
Summary: When hunters show up at his church, Mycroft usually kills them before they can harm his brother. But not this time.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 23
Kudos: 187
Collections: JustMystradeThoughts Plot Bunny Adoptions





	The Priest's Secrets

It should have been easy. In the twenty years Mycroft had been protecting his brother, there had been more than a few hunters. Fortunately, most of them worked alone. Easy enough to bring them into the church, give them poisoned wine, and let Sherlock drink them dry. If Mycroft felt guilt about their deaths, he reminded himself that he was protecting his brother. Most of them had plenty of blood on their hands and no one to mourn them, anyway.

There was something different about this latest one. His dark brown eyes were kind, rather than cold. And though he came to Mycroft seeking information about the rumored monster, he wasn’t imperious and demanding about it.

So Mycroft didn’t poison the wine.

He kept Lestrade’s glass full and eventually he passed out with his head on the table. Mycroft looked at him, wondering what he should do. If he took him out of town, he’d only come back, and this time he’d know not to trust Mycroft, might even come here first to look for Sherlock. Might bring others with him.

Sherlock himself entered the room while Mycroft was lost in thought. Outside it had just begun to rain. “You didn’t poison him,” he said.

“Obviously,” said Mycroft.

“Why not?” asked Sherlock. Then he looked from the hunter to his brother. “Ah. You fancy him,” he said with a sneer in his voice.

“I don’t even know him. And he came here to kill you,” said Mycroft.

“But you didn’t kill him.” Sherlock walked over and lifted Lestrade with preternatural strength. He licked his lips and bit down on his throat. Lestrade moaned softly and ineffectually pushed him away.

Mycroft turned away from the sight, ignoring the twitch of jealousy he felt in his heart. “Do with him what you will, Sherlock.”

Sherlock disengaged his teeth and looked at Mycroft a long moment, then turned and carried Lestrade down the stairs and into the crypts where he lived out his days.

Mycroft cleaned up from dinner and gave a silent prayer to a God that never answered, not even quite sure what he was praying for.

**

Greg came to slowly. Something was wrong. There was a burning hunger running through his veins, something primal and dark. He opened his eyes to find he could see perfectly well despite the pitch black room.

Fear and anger warred inside of him. He sat up, only to find one wrist chained to the wall. He had a feeling he could pull free if he really wanted to, if he wasn’t so hungry.

A figure came towards him, walking as easily in the dark as if it were broad daylight. Perhaps easier if what Greg’s instincts were screaming at him was true.

“Drink this,” he said, pressing a cup to Greg’s mouth. He could smell the blood and while he wanted to turn away, he took the cup and gulped it down, finding it eased the hunger, if only a little.

Finishing the last drop he threw the cup away, sending it clattering against the stones. “What have you done to me,” he growled.

“You already know,” the stranger crouched in front of him, looking him over as if trying to see something. “Going by the letters on your person your name is Gregory Lestrade. You were once a city guardsman, but have been a hunter the last few years. You lost someone, that’s the most common reason for men to turn to hunting shadows and rumors.”

“My wife,” he said, uncertain why he was even being honest.

“You were already estranged from her, why would you care?” He seemed genuinely curious.

“We were still married,” said Greg. 

“And since you were a guardsman you felt obligated to find out the truth. So you did. And you killed it. But then you couldn’t go back to your ordinary life. What if there were more out there?”

“You’re a monster,” spat Greg.

“You came here to kill me,” he said, standing up and moving to a table full of vials and various apparatus.

“Why change me?” asked Greg. “Why leave me alive?”

He paused and looked over at him. “Because my brother didn’t kill you.”

**

Mycroft saw out the last few of his parishioners and closed the doors. He sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair. It had been four days since Sherlock had taken Lestrade into the crypts and so far there had been no sign of either of them.

Even if he’d lived, Lestrade would surely hate him. It was no more than he deserved, after all. 

Collecting himself, Mycroft went to tidy up the church, then fixed himself a small meal. He was just sitting down to eat it when Sherlock appeared. “Lestrade needs you.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and tried to ignore the leap of hope in his heart. “Not dead, then?” 

Sherlock hesitated. “I changed him,” he admitted. “And he needs fresh blood. Human blood.”

Mycroft bit back words of admonition. It was far too late to take things back. Instead, he took a bite of his food, then got to his feet. “Take me to him.”

Sherlock nodded and led the way down into the crypt. For Mycroft’s benefit he lit a torch, leading him down, down into the deepest, oldest parts, places with pagan markings on the wall, showing this had been a holy place long before Christianity had built over it.

He pushed open a door and gestured Mycroft inside. Lestrade sat against the far wall with one wrist chained, looking pale, even paler than his undeath would suggest. Despite all that he glared at Mycroft, looking as though he’d fight him with his last breath.

“You need to drink,” said Sherlock, putting the torch in its place and coming over to him.

“If I don’t, I’ll die?” asked Lestrade, never taking his eyes off Mycroft.

“It does seem likely,” said Sherlock.

Mycroft crossed the room, resisting the urge to adjust his collar. Instead, he pushed up his sleeve and offered his wrist.

Lestrade met his eyes for a long moment. Mycroft wondered what he was seeing there. But whatever he saw was apparently enough because he dropped his fangs and lowered his head to bite, all without averting his gaze.

Mycroft shivered as Lestrade’s teeth penetrated his skin. Sherlock had, on rare, desperate, occasion, drank from him, but it was never like this. He flushed, blinking and tearing his gaze away from Lestrade’s. 

Sherlock watched them closely, clearly ready to pull them apart, but Lestrade let go of his own accord. “Thank you,” he said, wiping his mouth.

Mycroft nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He got to his feet and waved off Sherlock’s concern. Taking one breath, then another, he made his way to the door and picked up the torch. He glanced at the pair once more, then headed back to the land of the living.

**

It was hard to know how much time had passed, here in the dark. Sherlock was back at his table, doing whatever he was doing. Greg had learned his name and that of his brother, Mycroft, but not much else. His blood hunger had eased with the priest’s visit, but he found himself hungering for something else now. Answers.

“I want to speak with your brother,” said Greg.

Sherlock raised his head, clearly confused. “Why?”

“Maybe I’m tired of staring at the walls,” said Greg, shifting and making the chain rattle.

Sherlock frowned but put down his work. “I’ll see if he’s amenable.”

Greg watched him go and close the door behind him. While he waited he tested the chain holding his wrist. As he suspected, he could pull it loose if he wanted. But not now, not yet.

After an interminable period of time, footsteps could be heard in the hall. He looked up as Mycroft stepped into the room. “You wished to speak with me?” he said.

“Yes.”

Mycroft studied his face. “Leave us.”

Sherlock frowned, but stepped out, closing the door.

“He listens to you,” said Greg.

“I’ve kept him alive, and he’s my brother, so, sometimes,” said Mycroft, crossing the room and taking a seat. “You’re looking better.”

“Why didn’t you kill me? He’s surprised you left me alive.”

Mycroft looked away. “I’ve killed every hunter that’s crossed our path, save you. If you’re looking to hunt monsters, I’ve taken far more lives than he has.”

Greg shifted, flexing his hand. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I don’t know,” said Mycroft quietly. “You’re different than the others.”

“And now I’ve become what I hunted,” growled Greg. “You took my life, in a different way.”

“I gave Sherlock the choice, but yes.” Mycroft raised his head and met his eyes. “I know you are not truly restrained. If you wish to kill me, I won’t try to stop you.”

Now it was Greg that blinked. “If you die, who will look after your brother?”

Mycroft shrugged. “He will outlive me one way or the other.”

“Who are you?” asked Greg. 

“Just a priest, that’s all.” Mycroft got up and started to pace. “Twenty years ago my brother appeared on my doorstep, ill and, it seemed, near death. He asked to bite my wrist, so I obliged. That was when I learned what he’d become. He’d had an affair with a man and had, like you, been turned against his will. When the man abandoned him he came to me. I’ve kept him alive primarily on animal blood. The only humans besides myself that he’s drank from have been the hunters that have come to seek him out. They all assume that a humble village priest would only wish to help them. I suppose he’s been spotted now and again, on the rare nights that he’s left these crypts.”

“And now what, you’re going to keep me here?”

“That is up to you,” said Mycroft. He picked up the key from the table and walked over to Greg. “If you flee then I suppose we’ll be forced to leave. If you kill me, I can’t promise Sherlock won’t kill you in return. There are ways for you to kill yourself, though given that you drank from me the other day, I doubt that you’ll choose that path.” Mycroft released the chain and stood back, watching him and breathing slowly as Greg got to his feet.

“And what if I wanted none of those things,” said Greg. “What if I wanted to stay?”

“Why would you do that?” asked Mycroft.

“There aren’t any monsters here,” said Greg. “Not that I can see, anyway. And maybe I can help.”

Mycroft bit his lip. “You’d be welcome too. I’m sure Sherlock would enjoy the company.”

He took a step towards Mycroft. “And would you enjoy my company? I seem to recall us getting along fairly well before I had too much wine.”

Mycroft swallowed and nodded. “For whatever time we might have,” he said quietly.

Greg took another step closer. Just then the door opened and Sherlock stepped in, looking between them. Mycroft took a breath and moved away from Lestrade. “I’ll be upstairs,” he said, not quite looking at either of them before picking up the torch and hurrying out.

**

Sunday found Mycroft in the pulpit as usual, looking over his congregation. The same faces and names he’d been shepherding for years, families that had been in this village for ages past and would likely be for ages to come.

Only this time Lestrade lingered in the back. He’d slipped in after service started and was gone by the time it ended.

Mycroft baptized an infant, giving her family the expected blessings. He spoke of new life and found his mind turning to Lestrade. What sort of life would the man lead now?

When everything was finished and the last congregant gone, Mycroft cleaned up the church like usual, then went out to check on the animals. He’d have to slaughter another pig soon for the blood, but not quite yet.

He sat down to eat his midday meal, only for Lestrade to appear in the doorway. “Did you need something?” asked Mycroft.

“Do you mind a bit of company?” he asked.

“Not at all. Sherlock busy with his experiments, I suppose?”

“Always working on something,” said Lestrade. He looked at Mycroft. “Since it seems I’m somewhat part of the family now, may I call you Mycroft?”

Mycroft swallowed hard. “Certainly, if you wish.”

“Call me Greg, will you?” he said.

Mycroft gave him a small smile. “Greg.”

“Good. Now, will you tell me about the village?”

“Of course.” Mycroft found himself relaxing as he spoke.

**

Greg left Mycroft late in the evening and head back down to the crypt. Sherlock looked up as he came back into the room. “You spent the day with my brother.”

“I enjoy talking to him,” said Greg. “He knows a lot of things.”

“He should be doing more than moldering in a church in a tiny village,” said Sherlock to his equipment.

“But that was his choice wasn’t it? He could have done something else.”

“Likely,” said Sherlock. “But perhaps this place has been a refuge in more than one way.”

Greg nodded, understanding what Sherlock wasn’t saying.

Sherlock sighed. “I did offer to change him, once,” he admitted. “He refused.”

Greg looked at him. “Do you think he’d refuse if I asked?”

“I think you’d have a better chance than I.”

**

Nearly a week later, Mycroft sat at his desk doing some work, well aware of Greg sitting by the fire. Greg had taken to doing some darning, just for something to do. It was almost charmingly domestic aside from the knowledge of his undeath.

Mycroft looked up to find Greg was watching him. Mycroft put his quill aside and got up, moving towards Greg. Greg mirrored his actions and put his darning aside, standing to meet him.

“You’ve never asked me about myself,” said Mycroft quietly.

Greg hesitated only a moment, then reached up to cup his cheek. “Why did you join the church?”

“I didn’t wish to marry,” said Mycroft.

“You prefer the company of men, don’t you?” asked Greg.

Mycroft nodded. “The church was the safest option.”

“So here you’ve been, all these years, virtually alone.”

Mycroft glanced down. “I’m not a good man, Greg. As I’ve told you, I’ve killed many.”

“Men that would have destroyed your brother if given half a chance.” Greg’s voice was gentle. “You’ve taken good care of the village, your brother and the church. Perhaps Sherlock changed me because he wanted someone to take care of you.”

Mycroft still kept his gaze down. “I’ll leave you, one day. And you’ll continue to live. But at least you can watch out for Sherlock.”

“What if you didn’t have to go. What if you changed, too?”

Mycroft looked up at him. “You’re offering to turn me?” 

“Sherlock told me he offered once and you refused. Would you refuse me as well?”

Mycroft swallowed hard. “I don’t think I could,” he said faintly. “I don’t want to.”

“Where is your bed, Mycroft?”

Mycroft studied his face, then covered Greg’s hand with his own and squeezed before turning and leading the way. Greg was right. He’d spent his entire life taking care of everyone else. For once, he wanted something for himself.

They reached his bedroom and Mycroft turned to face Greg, tugging his collar free and setting it aside. Greg leaned in and kissed him gently. Mycroft sighed, eyes closing as Greg gently undressed him and led him to his bed. 

Sometimes, in the dark hours of the night, Mycroft had touched himself, imagined what it might be like to be taken, to surrender. Greg’s hands smoothed across his body, stoking fires he didn’t think were possible. 

Mycroft could drown in those kisses. He was aware of Greg spreading him open, touching him, drawing out soft groans of pleasure. Mycroft moaned as Greg pressed into him, instinctively winding his limbs around his lover. 

“Beautiful,” murmured Greg, nuzzling his throat. 

Mycroft tensed as he neared the peak of his pleasure, then he was toppling over the edge, crying out. Greg bit down on his throat, drinking greedy gulps as he chased his own release.

There was no pain, only white-hot pleasure before the world went dark.

**

Greg paced as Sherlock sat on the edge of Mycroft’s bed. “I did what you told me to do,” he said.

Sherlock punctured his own wrist and let a few drops of blood drip into Mycroft’s mouth. “He’ll wake up,” Sherlock assured him.

Greg hoped so. This wasn’t anything he’d come here to find, but it was everything he wanted.

There was a soft noise and Greg turned back to the bed. Slowly Mycroft opened his eyes. “Is it done?” he asked.

“Yes, brother,” said Sherlock offering him a cup of the animal blood they kept on hand.

Mycroft quickly drank it down, clearly hungry.

“Does he need human blood? I did.”

“He will,” said Sherlock. “I made arrangements.”

Mycroft frowned and put the cup aside. “Arrangements?”

“There’s a young woman in the village with an infant. She’s been hired on as your housekeeper. We’ve been speaking during services. She has no kin and can be trusted to keep secrets.”

“You’ve been planning this for a while, haven’t you?” he asked.

“I hoped that one day, I could repay you.” Sherlock looked away and stood. He gestured Greg towards the bed.

Greg sat down at the spot Sherlock had vacated. “We’ll figure things out,” he told Mycroft, smoothing his hair back. “And we’ll protect each other.”

“And nobody has to be alone,” said Mycroft quietly.

“No, never again.”

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to paialovespie for the prompt and all those that encouraged this along :D You can find me on twitter at merindab.


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